


Abby Stevenson's Theory of Winnertivity

by mizzmarvel



Category: Baby-Sitters Club - Martin
Genre: F/F, First Kiss, High School
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-20
Updated: 2009-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-04 19:04:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/33122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mizzmarvel/pseuds/mizzmarvel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Abby has a theory about winners--they hate other successful people. Clearly that's why she hates Stacey McGill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Abby Stevenson's Theory of Winnertivity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Carla (escritoireazul)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/escritoireazul/gifts).



I, Abigail Stevenson, am a winner.

Okay, that sounds pretty ridiculous, but it’s true. I haven’t lost a race since the day I was born, when my twin sister Anna came eight minutes before me, and I’m still not entirely convinced that we weren’t switched somehow. I’ve never even been on a team that hasn’t at least gone to the district finals. I get pretty good grades, was voted Class Clown by my peers, and don’t look half shabby. It’s all soccer to me—I see the goal, take aim, and nail it.

Easier said than done? Not for me. I’m just lucky, I guess. Forget rabbit’s feet—people should hang a lucky Abby’s foot on their keychains. (Please don’t.)

But here’s my theory about winners—they hate other winners. It’s true. Anytime they find someone with as much going for them, it’s hate at first sight. And if one has more than the other, well, you might as well put swords in each of their hands, because it’s going to be a battle royale.

That, or they become friends but secretly loathe each other.

I hate Stacey McGill.

*

All right, let me clarify something. I don’t _hate _Stacey. She just gets on my nerves sometimes. Or a lot of the time. Or, okay, maybe I want to pop her one, but just once, and not enough to do permanent damage or anything.

But just look at it this way—for almost everything that makes me super-awesome and interesting, she has to one up me. Don’t believe me? Let’s take a look at my handy list.

ABBY: From Long Island.

STACEY: From Manhattan.

ABBY: Class Clown.

STACEY: Most Likely to Succeed, Prettiest, Best Dressed.

ABBY: Striker for one of the best high school girls’ soccer teams in Connecticut.

STACEY: Dated the varsity football quarterback for a while, which is apparently way more impressive than actual sports. (Barf.)

ABBY: Asthma and allergies, requires pills and inhaler.

STACEY: Diabetes that has already almost killed her, requires daily insulin shots on her delicate much-softer-than-mine skin.

ABBY: Naturally curly hair.

STACEY: Permed hair, but blonde.

ABBY: Jewish.

STACEY: ??? Stacey-ish???

Okay, so I win that last round, but that’s it.

Can you blame me for hating her a little?

*

And of course, of _course _Stacey turns sixteen on an April day that’s putridly perfect. It’s warm without being hot, with a faint spring breeze, and by nightfall, a full, pearl-white moon is looming overhead. Maybe my eyes deceive me, but I might even see a few early season fireflies flitting around. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if a few unicorns came out and did the Charleston, just for the anniversary of Anastasia Elizabeth McGill’s birth.

Obviously, she’s having a huge party.

“Let’s leave and go watch the Revs game,” I whisper to Kristy Thomas as we stand on the McGills’ front porch.

“Look, we have to stay at least an hour, then we can go” she says, pressing the doorbell and crossing her arms awkwardly, hiding the tiny shadow of cleavage her blouse exposes. There are a lot of things Kristy’d rather do than dress up for a party, especially Stacey’s kind of party, which is full of obnoxious guys and loud music.

The music I don’t mind. The guys, eh, I can take or leave.

When the door opens, it’s not even Stacey, of course. On her big day, one of her minions will take care of such trivialities as greeting guests. It’s Dorianne Wallingford. Her face is bright and grinning when she opens the door, but it goes slack she sees who it is. 

“Oh. It’s just you guys.” She steps aside to let us in. “Leave the diet sodas for Stacey.” 

“Aw, thanks for the warm welcome,” I say, rolling my eyes as we step in, gift bags in hand.

“Oh, don’t worry about Dori,” Kristy replies, “she’s just been in a bad mood since _LOGAN BRUNO GAVE HER CRABS_.”

For a short girl, Kristy sure has lungs. Every eye in our immediate vicinity turns to us, then to shell-shocked Dorianne.

Kristy’s a winner too, but as long as she comes up with stuff like that, I could never hate her. 

*

The thing is, I probably wouldn’t have starting hating Stacey if she hadn’t started hating me first. I mean, once upon a time, we used to hang out a lot. There was the Baby-Sitters Club to keep us friends, but even after that, when high school started, we still went to the mall, had lunch, rollerbladed, that sort of thing.

This past year? Not so much. And it wasn’t me, I swear. It was Stacey who was suddenly coming up with excuses not to do things. Not to be seen with me, I think is more like it. All of a sudden, I was just the sneezy jock girl with hair like kudzu. And yet, her competition.

I wasn’t going to beg her for an explanation. Fine, let her be that way. And that’s when I came up with my theory. It made perfect sense—successful people hate other successful people. The competition is threatening. It only made sense for me to hate her back.

Especially after I came up with that list.

*

It looks like the entire sophomore class, as well as a bunch of upperclassmen, has shown up. That wouldn’t be too bad except that it includes some less than stellar guests. There’s Cokie Mason, squinting into her compact mirror and teasing her bangs. Alex Kurtzman, who’s gone from wearing suits to sports coats and bolo ties. And of course, Alan Gray with M&amp;Ms in his eyes, doing his famous Little Orphan Annie impression.

“I can’t believe Claudia used to go out with him,” Kristy grumbles, heading for the snack table. I follow and very deliberately take a diet soda, even though I don’t really like them. Looking around, I don’t see Stacey anywhere. Yet.

Kristy takes a handful of chips and pops one in her mouth before adding, “At least things didn’t last between them. But everyone remembers.” 

*

In Stoneybrook, a girl is defined by the guy she’s dating. It sucks, and it’s not fair, but it’s the way it is.

Claudia—our pal, Stacey’s BFF—is still associated with this dweeb she dated for a month and a half in middle school. And our friend Mary Anne was Logan Bruno’s Girlfriend (yeah, crabs guy) for years, even though they only dated for most of eighth grade. She’s graduated to being Cary Retlin’s Girlfriend, and she says the important thing is that she doesn’t think of herself that way, and _he_ doesn’t think of her that way.

But still, I think it’s gross.

I’m nobody’s girlfriend. And believe me, I’m relieved.

The thing about Stacey, whenever she’s dating someone, she’s His Girlfriend. The Quarterback’s Girlfriend, the Captain of the Wrestling Team’s Girlfriend, the Star Pitcher’s Girlfriend. But when it’s all over—and it always ends pretty quickly—she goes right back to being just Stacey McGill. 

That’s pretty cool.

She’s still annoying, though.

*

“This many people didn’t come to _my_ last birthday,” I say bitterly, downing my godawful Tab.

Kristy rolls her eyes. “Okay, a) if you start talking about your stupid list or even stupider theory again, ever, over the course of my entire life, I’m punching you. And b) you only invited BSC people, your soccer teammates, and Anna to your party anyway.”

“And Stacey didn’t even come,” I shoot back.

“It was her weekend with her dad! She told you that and still gave you a present!” 

“Even still!” Then I pause for a second. “That’s something else for my list—Abby goes to her party, Stacey ditches—”

Kristy punches me. 

*

ABBY: goes to Stacey’s party.

STACEY: ditches Abby’s party.

ABBY: gets punched by Kristy.

STACEY: gets season 1 of _Lost_ on DVD from Kristy (I checked her bag).

*

Since I don’t commiserate with people who punch me—okay, it was just on the arm, but still—I go off on my own, heading into the thick crowd of kids, all dancing and laughing and making out and trying to talk over the music. A few people actually say hi to me, but I just ignore them and keep moving, weaving myself through the maze of bodies.

I don’t know where I’m headed, but I just keep thinking how stupid it is that I’m even here, at the party for a girl who can’t even stand me, who I don’t even like. That I paid money for a stupid present for her, that I took the time to stick it in a bag that says Happy Birthday on the side, that I’m missing a perfectly good soccer game on cable for this.

This is not how winners should act. I shouldn’t have been in this position in the first place.

I think maybe I’m heading toward the exit when I make the exact most incorrect turn and run smack into Stacey McGill.

As Bugs Bunny once said, I knew I should have taken that left turn at Albuquerque.

*

Really, I never meant to hate her.

I mean, let’s face it. She’s gorgeous, with bouncy blonde hair, baby blue eyes, and the kind of curves that make people stop dead in their tracks, and since she’s from the city, she’s got this cool attitude about it, like her looks are just a given. Her grades are perfect, her wardrobe is cutting edge, her smile could make you die happy, and she’s got the meanest right hook I’ve ever had the misfortune of experiencing. (Word to the wise—do not make a Wilford Brimley joke around this girl.)

In short, Anastasia Elizabeth McGill is pretty much as perfect as a girl can get (other than Aretha Franklin, but no one has pipes like hers). 

It was just that one day she was my friend, and the next, gone. Left a fingerless glove, a packet of honey, and a cloud of perfume in her wake.

All right, not really, but she was barely speaking to me. She didn’t come to my birthday party. Never sat by me at lunch anymore. I could connect the dots.

I guess Stacey just figured out the theory before I did. At least, it’s the only reason I could come up with.

*

“Ow,” she says, touching her nose delicately and squinting one eye at me.

“Nice running into you.” I can’t resist an easy joke like that. Gingerly, I touch the part of my chin that just connected to her schnozzola. No harm done, to me at least.

“Ha ha.” Warily, she lowers a hand and (fake-)smiles at me. “But anyway, I’m glad you could make it.”

“Yeah, no problem. I’m going now, though.” Awkwardly, I hold out the gift bag I’ve been carrying around. “Here, enjoy.”

“Already?” Her face actually falls, and seriously, it’s great acting. “But the party just started like an hour ago.”

I shrug indifferently. A little acting of my own. “I’ve got plans.”

“On my _birthday_?”

“You had plans on _my _birthday.”

She has the grace to look sheepish. “Well, yeah, but that—well, all right, but you really can’t stay a little longer? I actually got a cake with real sugar in it for everyone else, and—”

I hate raisins, I hate overrated David Beckham, and I hate Stacey, but most of all I hate being fake. I hate having to do this little dance of pretending to care, for the benefit of whoever might be eavesdropping.

Abruptly, I snap, “Can we just cut to the chase, McGill? You hate me, I’m just here for show, and I got you a pink Snuggie for your birthday.”

Done and _done_. That’s how winners do it. Her shocked face, the soaring feeling of triumph—the moment would be perfect if not for:

“…I hate you?” Stacey asks, looking puzzled.

Oh _crap._ She doesn’t—

Wait a second—no. No, this is just more acting, to make me feel like a total jerk while she comes out smelling like a rose. (Not that she doesn’t already. For God’s sake, she’s Stacey Mc_Gill_.) Well, I’m not playing this game anymore. Screw that.

“Obviously,” I say coolly, looking down at my nails for effect. “You’ve been avoiding me for months, and my theory clearly suggests that it’s because you hate me.” I quickly add, “And I hate you too, of course,” but it seems a lot more like an afterthought than I meant it to.

“Your _theory_? What theory?”

I guess it wouldn’t have made sense for me to tell her, so I say, “It’s like this—I’m so great and you’re so great that we both intrude on each other’s separate sphere of greatness. So, like, you know, electrons or something, each repels the other.”

I’m so busy being impressed with that highly scientific explanation that I almost don’t notice Stacey’s face softening. “You think I’m ‘so great’?” 

Dear God, I think I actually blush. “Um, yeah. I still hate you, though.”

“But I don’t hate you,” she says.

I eye her warily, but I don’t think even Katharine Hepburn could’ve acted this convincingly. “Really?”

“Yes.”

“_Really_ really?”

 “Oh my Lord, Abby, _really_!”

 “Well, damn it.”

*

ABBY: Stupid, has faulty theories.

STACEY: Smart, disproves theories.

ABBY: Total jerk.

STACEY: Actually not horrible.

*

“So why have you been acting like I have the plague?” I demand. Because yes, I’m so very stupid, but this isn’t all my fault.

Stacey hesitates, then grimaces, this determined look coming over her pretty face. Looking around quickly to make sure no one’s looking, she grabs me and pulls me into the nearest adjacent room. Blinking with surprise when she flicks the lights on, I see we’re in her mom’s very floral-decorated downstairs bathroom.

“Whah – ?” I start to say, before Stacey covers my mouth with her own.

And no surprise that Stacey tastes incredible—like fresh citrus fruit and honey and just a hint of Crest spearmint toothpaste. What _is_ surprising is how good it feels, and I’m kissing her back with all I’ve got until—stupid asthma—I have to pull back and gasp for air.

“Wow,” she breathes, laughing a little. Her pink lip gloss, perfectly applied a second ago, is smeared now. Somehow that just makes her more beautiful. “That went a lot better than I thought it would.”

“_What_?” I screech, dizzy from her kiss and her smell and her everything. “You avoided me because you wanted to make out with me?”

“Well, I didn’t know how you’d take it,” she says defensively.

Which is completely dumb and cowardly, but it makes sense. It also makes me pause. How _do_ I take it? My whole life, I’ve taken the idea that guys are total dorks and run with it. I guess I’ve never slowed down long enough to consider that I might want to try out for the other team.

Looking at her now, hair rumpled, a tiny bit of uncertainty in her eyes, I kind of want to kiss her again. No, make that _definitely_.

And if I’m going to kiss anyone, it’s got to be a winner.

“I think I’m taking it just fine,” I say, grinning slowly. “But why me?”

Stacey smiles and shrugs. “Have you told you about my theory that jocks are hot?”

* 

So, my theory didn’t quite work out. Not all theories do—I mean, once upon a time, everyone thought the sun revolved around the Earth. It turned out it doesn’t, everyone moved on, and so have I. And that’s that.

But I do have one more item to add to my list: 

ABBY: Pretty good kisser.

STACEY: PHENOMENAL KISSER.

But I’m kind of the winner in this round.

Told you I’m lucky.

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for not including one of your preferred pairings -- I kept twisting the characters' arms, but this is what came out!


End file.
